


she's beauty and she's grace

by dearonedriveon



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternative Universe - FBI, Bellamy Blake is a drag queen, Clarke Griffin is Miss New York, Clarke is a closetcase, Crack, Don't take it seriously, F/F, F/M, Finn is a beard, Lexa is a widow, M/M, Smut, gayer version of Miss Congeniality but not really the same as Miss Congeniality, i am trash, ode to april 25th, whodunit crime mystery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-28
Updated: 2019-04-28
Packaged: 2020-02-09 09:55:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18635806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dearonedriveon/pseuds/dearonedriveon
Summary: FBI agent/professional gay disaster Lexa Woods goes undercover at the Miss United States competition to catch a deadly criminal mastermind, but first catches the eye of Miss New York. Turns out it's hard to stay undercover when someone else is sneaking in your bed.Read the tags. Pure crack.





	she's beauty and she's grace

When Lexa arrives to work fifteen minutes early and two cups of coffee in, she thinks it’s a normal Tuesday.

She doesn’t make it to her cubicle before she realizes she’s wrong.

“We got another letter from our Penpal. Meeting in five in boardroom three.” says Lincoln in passing, a general invitation to the hall but one she’s eager to accept personally.

She’s been on desk work since Co— for two years. She had graduated near the top of her class at Cal, served four years as an intelligence officer in the Air Force, and now she’s wasting away shuffling paperwork at the FBI. She’s itching for substance and the underbelly of the world seems eager to please.

She strolls into boardroom three exactly one minute early with her third cup of coffee in hand and settles into a seat in the middle of the room with time to hang her crisp blazer on her chair and lay out her leather portfolio perfectly parallel to both edges of the table.

Pen poised above her legal pad, her left brow arches as she reads the projected letter.

“Same M.O. as usual,” Lincoln starts in his usual gruff tone, as if he’d already been talking. “Typographical House of Leaves mumbo jumbo, threats veiled in iambic pentameter, self-righteous manifesto, you name it. The thing is so convoluted we won’t even be able to make sense of it after he’s already done the deed, but we know for sure this is his taunt that he’s going to strike. This guy’s body count is up to 15 in the last year and I’m not losing one more citizen on my watch.”

Eyes tracing over the tangled couplets, she tunes Lincoln out. Lips pursed, she reads through the letter again and again until she stops thinking of words and starts thinking of sounds dissociated of meaning. She doubles back, pen scratching against her paper as she makes notes of strange repetitions – a first for this criminal.

“Captain, I think he’s sent us a clue,” she says, eyes on her notes. Lincoln pauses his presentation, unbothered at her interruption.

“What do you know about the Miss United States Pageant?”

 

 

One hundred one.

One hundred two.

One hundred—

“Lincoln, I told you, I’m not doing it.”

“Lexa,” he pleads. She pauses, letting her body hang inverted off the pullup bar and delighting in the feeling of blood rushing to her head as she meets his eyes upside down.

“Lincoln,” she says, droll and slow.

“This is a big case, Lexa. Don’t you think it’s time for you to get back out from behind the desk?”

She rolls her jaw in irritation, putting her hands behind her head and resuming her inverted sit ups, “If it had been my choice, I’d have never been put behind a desk, Lincoln.”

He winces but remains steadfast, “You’re perfect for this, Lex. We can finally nail this guy.”

“Easy for you to say, you won’t be the one wearing a thong.”

His eyebrow raises in challenge and Lexa really doesn’t want to know.

“And, anyway, could you even imagine me in one of those competitions? I’m a flannel-wearing lesbian feminist, Lincoln. Even if I had country music hair and I answered to Lexie Lou Freebush, I’d stick out like a sore thumb.”

She grabs the pullup bar and swings her legs down in a swift, singular movement. Dropping down, she accepts the towel Lincoln offers and wipes the sweat off her face.

“Look, Lex, Octavia knows the perfect guy to get you ready. We have a few days. Take tonight and promise me you’ll think about it.”

 

 

When Lexa gets home that night, she beelines to Costia’s old nightstand where a shrine has gathered.

Her eyes meet Costia’s in a framed wedding portrait as her trembling fingers struggle to undo the clasp of her necklace where her wedding band hangs.

 _Is this what you’d want?_   She asks, fingers brushing across Costia’s cheeks. It’s been long enough that she can’t remember exactly what she felt like, and Lexa isn’t sure if it’s a blessing or a curse.

She knows with certainty, though, what Costia would want. Even if she doesn’t want to admit it.

She opens the nightstand drawer, letting her eyes drift shut at the rush of floral perfume from Costia’s lace lavender drawer satchels.

But only for a second.

She opens her eyes and tenderly dismantles her shrine, fingers lingering on textures and shapes.

When the last thing that remains is her wedding portrait, she gives her beloved a farewell kiss.

Not even a minute after she shuts the drawer, she sends Lincoln a text:

_Count me in._

 

 

Lexa isn’t surprised when Lincoln’s guy turns out to be Octavia’s brother who’s an obvious friend of Dorothy.

“You dykes and your cowboy walks,” he tuts, brown eyes following her as she walks to and fro in a short bodycon dress and heels.

She’s at least a little offended, though, when Octavia’s brother turns out to be the reigning Miss Gay America.

“Oh honey, I’ve made a career walking in heels with my dick tucked up my ass. You can do better than that shit.” he sasses as she trips a third time in her four-inch heels.

“How you think you’d fare with my gun up your ass?” she grumbles, pushing herself back up to her feet.

“Mm, you keep talking to me like that, I might think you like me,” he says with a wink.

She bites her cheek before she smiles, because she can’t help the soft spot she developed for drag queens after eleven seasons of Rupaul.

“What’s next? The bend-and-snap?” she drawls a few minutes later, once she thinks she’s mastered her heels.

“My sweet summer child,” he mocks, “Let’s see how snarky you are after a bikini wax.”

When she trips this time, she lands on her face.

 

 

“Hungry?” asks a low voice from behind her, just loud enough to be heard over the chattering of the welcome brunch.

It’s twenty-four hours later and Lexa is hairless save for her eyelashes, eyebrows and mane – all of which have received some sort of thickening treatment. Talk about unobtainable beauty standards.

She hasn’t eaten the entire time to fit into this tight pale blue collared dress and white heel combo. From the view she’s been able to collect from scattered mirrors, she almost thinks it was worth the sacrifice.

When she looks up from frantically cream-cheesing a bagel to see the source of the voice, a pair of wandering blue eyes almost seem to agree with that assessment… But they shoot up to meet Lexa’s eyes before she can determine whether the gaze is jealous or gay.

“Don’t they feed you in Oregon?” the blonde asks amiably, obviously reading her fake home state off the sash where her American flag shaped hidden camera is pinned.

She reads ‘Miss New York’ off the girl’s sash but finds her eyes stuck on an altogether more lovely sight.

Her knife stills on her bagel.

 _Stop staring at her tits and say something, Woods,_ whispers Murphy’s voice through her earpiece. She remembers why she’s here.

“Not as much as I’d like,” she quips, putting on a wide smile and blinking a little excessively to hide her IQ.

The blonde grins, tongue caught between her teeth in a way that Lexa would classify as flirtatious if she wasn’t at a beauty queen pageant. But, you know, she is.

“Clarke Griffin,” says the girl, offering her hand.

“Lex—ie,” says Lexa, with a purposefully dainty shake of her hand.

“Lou Freebush,” Clarke finishes for her, shapely dark blonde eyebrow quirking momentarily. “When they didn’t have your photo in the brochure, this was not what I imagined.”

Lexa distracts herself with the offerings of the buffet table to fight off a blush.

“Actually,” the girl continues, “if I’m honest, it was hard to imagine anything at all. Considering I couldn’t find out anything about you.”

 _Oh shit,_ Murphy whispers, ever-so-helpful. Lexa takes a big bite of bagel to buy herself some time to think.

“Griff!” exclaims a muscular Latina with a New Jersey sash, pulling Clarke into a hug and distracting her long enough for Lexa to praise gay Jesus for his mercy.

“Rae!” Clarke returns, pulling back from the hug. Her smile is wide but lacking its coquettish edge from moments before.

“Raven, this is Lexie. Lexie, Raven.”

Raven nods politely and shakes her hand—quickly, obviously distracted.

She leans in close to Clarke to stage whisper, “Have you seen the cheekbones on California this year?”

Clarke laughs, maybe a little too loudly.

“It was nice to meet you, Lexie,” Clarke husks, tugging Raven’s arm to lead her away.

 _And you thought you’d be the only lesbian,_ laughs Murphy in her ear.

When she takes a seat with her heaping plate to listen to Thelonious Jaha’s welcome speech, the view she has of Clarke is purely coincidental.

 

 

It’s twelve-oh-seven AM and Lexa is three steps into practicing the choreographed dance she’s going to have to perform, hair piled high on her head in a ballerina bun when she hears a light tap on her door.

Assuming it’s Lincoln or Murphy, she opens the door without checking the peephole, not bothering to pull her low-slung warmup pants up her hips.

So, she’s definitely unprepared for the hot blonde in the skimpy pajama set waiting for her on the other side of the door. Unprepared, but not completely surprised.

“Clarke,” she breathes out, shooting a glance over her shoulder to make sure her assigned roommate is still asleep. She steps out into the motel awning, closing the door softly behind her.

She left her earpiece and sash in the room, and, when Clarke leans in close enough she can see the pale tops of her breasts, Lexa feels completely defenseless.

“Hi,” says Clarke with a filthy smile, left hand tracing the lines of Lexa’s exposed shoulder.

“Hi,” Lexa repeats dumbly, leaning her full body weight back onto the motel door.

“It’s funny, before we met, I was looking for any piece of information to get you knocked out of the competition,” Clarke says, leaning even closer so her full lips begin ghosting over Lexa’s earlobe, “and ever since I saw you, all I could think about was what you’d look like out of that dress.”

Lexa’s head flops backwards gracelessly, knocking against the door with a groan that has nothing to do with the impact.

“And what do you think?”

Clarke laughs against her throat, fingertips beginning to explore the sliver of exposed skin above her pants, “Well, the view isn’t as unobstructed as I’d hoped, but the night is still young.”

Clarke leans back to meet her eyes and even though the motel lighting is dim, Lexa can see the proposition in them.

“What about your roommate?”

“Oh, she’s out seeing what California has to offer.”

Lexa halts a laugh in her throat. The host city of Reno is less than half an hour from the California state line, but she suspects Miss New Jersey is charting much closer terrains.

Clarke bats her eyes, “So what do you say, Oregon?”

Lexa purses her lips in consideration.

Anything for the mission, right?

 

 

When the door to Clarke’s motel room closes behind them, Lexa forgets the mission.

Clarke pins her to the second door of the evening without preamble, snaking her hands under Lexa’s shirt to investigate the topography of her abdominal muscles.

Fingers tangling in blonde curls, Lexa angles her face to meet Clarke’s lips.

The first kiss is soft in a way that scares Lexa, but it builds so quickly that the fear is soon overwhelmed with Clarke’s smell and taste and the slope of her ass fitting so perfectly in Lexa’s palm when she pulls her forward to grind against her thigh and _fuck_.

Clarke tires of working within the confines of Lexa’s top almost immediately. She tugs it over her head, parting from her lips only for the few seconds that the material obstructs her face and latching back on before the garment hits the carpeted floor with a quick nibble to Lexa’s bottom lip. Tongue pushing past Clarke’s parted lips, Lexa’s hands struggle to invent a method of shirt removal that doesn’t require parting again.

Clarke laughs against her mouth, giving her a peck before stepping back to pull her own shirt off.

Lexa stares.

“So cute,” Clarke mumbles into an open-mouthed kiss under her dropped jaw.

Clarke is licking into the hollows of her clavicles when a violent buzzing erupts from Lexa’s pocket.

Eyelashes fluttering, Lexa directs Clarke’s lips to her neck, encouraging her to continue while she lifts her phone to her opposite ear.

“Hello?” she says into the phone, breathless.

It’s Lincoln’s gruff voice that answers.

“Woods, we’ve got a lead.”


End file.
